


Those Poor Baristas

by AmaranthTalmage



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Starbucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 14:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17143688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmaranthTalmage/pseuds/AmaranthTalmage
Summary: Coffee is sub-par in Hell. So many things are sub-par in Hell. At least there are things to look forward to, including novice witches and bike couriers, and the occasional trip above ground.But the muzak remains the same.





	Those Poor Baristas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emocsibe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emocsibe/gifts).



There is a comfort in the infernal darkness of the coffee shop, muted music playing gently over the speakers that are hidden in the speakers attached in the near black corners of the small, crowded cafe. The tinny sounds of jazz flutes and high-pitched clarinets had always irritated Goodnight Robicheaux, but it had always existed, as had the lines that had always seemed to move to slow, and the over-priced coffee that had always been too hot or over-brewed. It had always been, as had the myriad of lesser imps and demons that giggled over insignificant amusements, just the right amount of frustration to make the finely pressed lines in his silk pocket square forget it's place in his dignified appearance. It wasn't about to change, and no amount of complaining would ever make it so, because what was Hell without just the right amount of discomfort?

He had asked, once, what that unholy racket they were forced to play once, and the man had answered, muzak. Muzak?! What the hell, he wondered, and asked further if the humans had actually invented that, or if it were yet another creation by the friendly faces at Hell, Inc. The music, with it's badly abused woodwinds, sickened him to think that it was all a bastardization with the attempt to imitate what music from his earthly home might have been. "Oh, no, there are humans who LOVE this stuff! None of them know that they're being primed by some of the most famous musicians Hell has placed above just to condition them to our use. Ya know, like.... oh! Yeah! Kenny G is one of ours..."

Kenny G... Goodnight had no idea who that was, but as far as plans to turn souls into demons and potential baristas in Hell, he supposed it could have been worse.

Goody's turn had finally come in line, but his cup had been waiting for him, and ALMOST perfectly done. Apparently, two hundred years of charm had finally impressed itself upon some dedicated barista, enough to make sure that his pecan praline latte came with a delicate drizzle of caramel floated primly atop the steamed milk. Goody was going to have a good day, he sighed as he slid into what seemed the most quiet booth in the shop, sequestered away from the squeally trendy masses and Instagoogle and their Facegram or whatever. He didn't care. This large cup before him, this beautiful work of art, this is what mattered today, the only reason he had ventured out into the dark void beyond his apartment and risked having to deal with... with... others.

Socialization would only agitate his anxiety, and he needed none of that. He needed to breathe

There is a comfort in the infernal darkness of the coffee shop, muted music playing gently over the speakers that are hidden in the speakers attached in the near black corners of the small, crowded cafe. The tinny sounds of jazz flutes and high-pitched clarinets had always irritated Goodnight Robicheaux, but it had always existed, as had the lines that had always seemed to move to slow, and the over-priced coffee that had always been too hot or over-brewed. It had always been, as had the myriad of lesser imps and demons that giggled over insignificant amusements, just the right amount of frustration to make the finely pressed lines in his silk pocket square forget it's place in his dignified appearance. It wasn't about to change, and no amount of complaining would ever make it so, because what was Hell without just the right amount of discomfort?  
He had asked, once, what that unholy racket they were forced to play once, and the man had answered, muzak. Muzak?! What the hell, he wondered, and asked further if the humans had actually invented that, or if it were yet another creation by the friendly faces at Hell, Inc. The music, with it's badly abused woodwinds, sickened him to think that it was all a bastardization with the attempt to imitate what music from his earthly home might have been. "Oh, no, there are humans who LOVE this stuff! None of them know that they're being primed by some of the most famous musicians Hell has placed above just to condition them to our use. Ya know, like.... oh! Yeah! Kenny G is one of ours..."  
Kenny G... Goodnight had no idea who that was, but as far as plans to turn souls into demons and potential baristas in Hell, he supposed it could have been worse.  
Goody's turn had finally come in line, but his cup had been waiting for him, and ALMOST perfectly done. Apparently, two hundred years of charm had finally impressed itself upon some dedicated barista, enough to make sure that his pecan praline latte came with a delicate drizzle of caramel floated primly atop the steamed milk. Goody was going to have a good day, he sighed as he slid into what seemed the most quiet booth in the shop, sequestered away from the squeally trendy masses and Instagoogle and their Facegram or whatever. He didn't care. This large cup before him, this beautiful work of art, this is what mattered today, the only reason he had ventured out into the dark void beyond his apartment and risked having to deal with... with... others.

  
Socialization would only agitate his anxiety, and he needed none of that. He needed to breathe, and focus. Closing his eyes, he ran his long fingers through the finely oiled locked of his mouse-brown hair, then over his precisely styled goatee, and as he leaned over, breathing deep the sweet perfume of coffee beans that were, for once, not overly burnt, he caught the unmistakeable whiff of brimstone. His ice-blue eyes shot open and looked about for the unfortunate soul that might have been summoned, only realizing with a panicked whimper and the edges of his vision fading, that it was him.

  
Movement in the room stilled and eyes turned to him as he began to clutch at the table, the booth, anything to stop his transfiguration, though he knew it would do nothing. "Wha... no... no! NO!!! SONUVABIiii......!"

  
The room then returned to it's usually scheduled program, no one being a stranger to summonings, and as they turned, they missed the vaguely human embodiment of inky blackness sliding into the booth to cup the coffee in hands that seemed to devour light with all of the power of an astronomical singularity.

  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------

The witch was exhausted, physically and emotionally. Literal blood, sweat, and tears had been poured into every attempt she could muster to draw forth some revenge against the individual that had taken her only love from her, and she had nothing left except her soul. She had tried every path, religious or practitioning, and nothing had come up. A week of nights, cold and starving, had been wasted at various crossroads, cemetaries, or even haunted houses, when she had been told that she could find the means to an end. All she had found was wasted time, while the man that had killed her beloved husband still carried on his business as if her heart and the man that had held it were nothing more than dust trampled underfoot on a pleasureable evening's walk.

  
It was the first night of a chilly November when she had finally convinced her best friend to sneak into the national park with her, out onto the misty Civil War battlegrounds with a full satchel over each of their backs. The significance of the day did not escape her, being a knowledgeable witch, though she had only recently began the rites of conversion. Her mother, and her mother before, on back until they could trace their arrival on US soil, had all bore the blood of the natural-born, bringing it with them from the blessed Isle of Erin. It bled through, showing in the copper that glowed brightly in their hair when the sun kissed their heads. It was evident in each faery fingerprint that freckled their cheeks. It was as easy as breathing to them, and this one, oh!

  
Emma Cullen, nee McLochlain, needed no books or websites or overly friendly covenkin to tell her what to load into the bags that she and her friend Teddy Quinn carried out into the silent fields. It was something she almost knew instinctually. The parks and recreation crews had been warned to watch for troublesome people around Samhain and the Dia de los Muertos, as it was a common thing for folks to come out and cause trouble. As Emma and Teddy had hid amongst the forests, camoflauged in the heaviest undergrowth until the officials lead the last visitors out, she supposed they were afraid of idiots not unlike the goth kids who danced in graveyards and played heavy metal records backwards, trying to summon Satan.

  
Wicca-wanna-bes. Giving proper witches a bad name, the whole lot of idiots, from the fluffy bunny-blessed-bes to LeVeyans. She might not have been a proper witch for very long, but idiots would be idiots forever.

  
Emma had watched the guard house for what felt like an age, Teddy's grey eyes scanning the woods and fields for the tiniest movement. Teddy's sigh startled Emma, causing her to gasp as she turned to the hand the young man lay upon her shoulder. "I think we're safe, Em."

  
Emma allowed her gaze to wander the field for one last look. "Are you sure? I don't wanna be..."

  
Teddy sighed heavily. "We've been sitting here for nearly two hours since the last folks left. I think we're gonna be okay, as long as we don't light any beacons for Gondor or host a howling rager."  
  
Emma nodded and threw her satchel over her shoulder, standing tall and stretching audibly. Next to her, Teddy followed suit and they began to stride out onto the fields of Antietam National Battlefield. They were nearly hidden in the surreal mists that seemed to dwindle over the battlements, oil-like in their consistency. With a chill in the air, they shouldn't have even been there, but it was apparent that the mists had a mind of their own, moving like some living thing over the hills and through the furroughs still lined on each side by fences.

It was in one of these furroughs that Emma came to a stop, Teddy nearly running into her as he watched the mists writhe around them, avoiding their touch and leaving a wide circle that thoroughly convinced Teddy that they were, indeed, alive. Emma looked about them and noticed with a sickening feeling that they had been walking the whole time in a thick blanket of absolute silence. No crickets, no nightbirds, not even the sound of distant traffic could be heard, despite their proximity to major highways. As they took deep breaths to steady themselves, they noticed the air had a distinct taste of gunpowder and blood, and smelled heavily of it. They exchanged a look and both swallowed thickly.

  
"This is the place," Emma whispered, her voice seeming to echo off the wall of vapor around them.

  
Teddy lowered his bag to the ground then reached out for the comfort of her presence, his hands trembling. "Y-yeah. Yeah, okay. Just... can you hurry up a bit an' maybe, we can..."  
"Get the hell out of here?" Emma answered, barely aware of the tremor in her own voice.  
"Hell yes," Teddy blurted quickly, stumbling over the words.  
Emma swallowed loudly. "Alright. Look, you watch, and I'll set up and get this done fast, and then we can get the hell out."

As Emma set her own back then knelt down to work, she noticed her own hands trembling. There would be no good in trying to Work while in the throes of a nervous breakdown and swallowing terror. Before she could Ground herself, however, she took out her Tools and fashioned the Circle. Along the ground, she lay a rune-painted throwblanket that she had pre-salted along the edge, saving her some time and preparation wherever she went. This also saved her from having to salt the ground, saving the ground and any grass she Worked upon from any lasting damage, and proving quick to clean up, in case she had to flee. An assortment of crystals and bones came next, then five bowls, one being larger than the other four. Four would serve to Ground by holding representations of the elements, and the fifth would be the Offering, centered on the cloth. She then prepared the four, water, earth fire, water, and in the fifth, she lit a coal for resinous incense. Finally, she was prepared to begin.

She took a few moments to steady herself, breathing deeply as she begged the bravery of her foremothers to burn hotly through her veins. As she felt her muscles begin to heat, almost from within, she knew it was not a prayer in vain. A tremor ran through her and she threw her head back, gasping deeply before releasing a vaporous cloud of breath that burned hotter than it usually would have.  
  
Teddy knew better than to disturb her, but as he stared, transfixed, he couldn't help but note that none of the times before had she behaved in this fashion. He was afraid for her, and, he was loathe to admit, a little afraid OF her. He fought the urge to reach forward to touch her.   
  
Emma rose up on her knees, head thrown back as she reached into her boot to pull a knife. Before Teddy could stop her, she had drawn the blade across the palm of her hand and she scattered handfuls of her blood across the blanket, the ground around her, and finally, when her blood hit the lit offering before them, the incense igniting with what sounded, to them, like a resounding cannon-blast. The smoke that curled up from the offering bowl reeked of sulfur and brimstone, and an angry growl bowled Emma over onto her back.

"SONUVABITCH!!!!"

Emma barked an undignified squeak and scrambled back towards Teddy, who gathered her up against him, and they both stared at the swirling miasma of black smoke and embers as it struggled against the boundries of the salted, rune painted blanket. They both expected ethereal growling and a voice like the screams of a million damned. No, that wasn't right. To be completely honest, they had expected nothing, like the many times Emma had attempted the spells before.   
  
Instead, as they watched, the smoke began to fade off and there stood a dignified older man in a well-pressed three piece suit the color of the sea after a storm. As the blackened vapors began to dissipate, they could see him clearly now. Beneath the unbuttoned coat, they caught the glimmer of a vest of shimmering sapphire silk that matched the handkerchief that hung slightly askew from his breast pocket. The lapels were marked with matching fleur di lis pins, each polished to a demonic shine. bright eyes of brilliant azure cutting through the night to glare angrily at them as he stood, tall and lanky, straightening his clothing into order.

"I swear to all that is holy and unholy, you better have a good goddamned reason to call me up here away from the most perfect cup of coffee that I will have in two fucking centuries or so help me, no amount of salt will prevent my materialization unto the both of you every time you close your eyes, as long as you both live....!!" The demon stopped to take a deep breath and lifted a finger to the heavens. "And another thing..." He stopped, his eyes nervously darting around the widened trench where he stood, his fingers trembling minutely as he took in his surroundings. 'Of course it would be here,' he thought to himself. If he thought to focus, he could make out the details of uniforms in the fog. With a sharp breath through his nose to steady himself, he began to run tremorous hands over his costly suit once more and took a step forward, out of the protective bindings of the salted cloth, much to the horror of Teddy and Emma.

  
When the two fledgling witches screeched, Goodnight dismissed them with a flourish of his hand and an exasperated sigh. "Oh, please. If what you desired was some pissant demon affected by such trivialities as SALT, then you should have set to summoning someone with the blasphemous disbelief that salt is a SPICE, like some YANKEE. Now," he said, standing tall over the two spellcasters, still stunned in a huddle on the dew soaked earth below, affecting an air of arrogance as he ran his hands over his slicked back hair. "If you've asked me here for results, then I demand we discuss our blossoming enterprise over some quality coffee." Goodnight smirked down at Teddy and Emma, his brilliant blue eyes twinkling at the thought of a decent brew. "And I demand you pay.

It was a simple thing to leave the park lands with a demon beside you. No one noticed their stalking straight across the grounds, the two humans nervously trailing the demon as he proudly strut where anyone could see them. When Teddy mentioned that they should lay low, his concerns were dismissed with a light chuckle and an assurance that no one would see Goodnight Robicheaux unless he WANTED them to, and he could extend the same hospitality to the two who were so gracious to call him above ground.   
Of course, the demon was terrified to his bones at the thought of getting back into dealing with humans after he had affected a long hiatus. To be honest, he hadn't been up to the game of gathering souls or pushing torment on anyone in a long time, and his nerves were to blame. But now that he was out in fresh air, he had to admit that he had missed it. And the humans had advanced so far since he had been mortal. He had watched from afar, or below, however you wanted to look at it, and Hell had been privy to some of the best advancements so far, since most of the brightest and most brilliant inventors wound up in the clutches of Unspeakable Torment. Honestly, how did one succeed that much without selling a soul or making a deal? Hard work indeed.

  
When Goodnight was last human, he had rode a horse to get anywhere, and now, he sat in the passenger seat Teddy was good enough to relinquish, a smug grin on his face as the car pulled up to a Starbucks. It was an anxious car ride over, and now Emma was watching him curiously, wondering what that twinkle of ironic humor in the demon's eye could possibly be.  
When Goodnight strode into the coffee shop like he owned the place and every barista stopped in their tracks, a look of respect and fear on their faces, Emma felt a cold weight in her stomach. He was a patient customer, almost too pleasant to be standing in line at the busy Sharpsburg location, standing tall as he fingered the brightly polished fleur di lis on his lapels. It was when he stepped up to the cashier and they slid an already prepared beverage his way, no questions asked, that her resolve snapped.  
"Alright, you..." she began sharply behind him.

  
The demon's smile grew impossibly wider, almost wolfish as he leaned towards the cashier, who took a sharp breath fearfully. "And take care of these two. Put it on my tab." With a wink to the paling barista, he turned and made his way to a corner booth, dark, comfortable, private.

  
"Goddamn it....!"

  
Teddy grabbed Emma by the shoulders. "Stop. Just... order. We'll figure it out in a moment when we've got some privacy."

  
Emma growled under her voice and turned to the cashier, who seemed a little more relieved to be dealing with less intimidating people, and through clenched teeth, put in her order. The poor barista seemed shaken, whether it was from Goodnight or Emma, Teddy couldn't tell, but as she stalked off to wait for her order, arms crossed sullenly over her chest, the young witchling took a moment to try and soothe the flustered barista's nerves. With a few easy smiles and some small talk, their orders had been placed and made, then paid for, the people behind the counter obviously uneasy with the demon's presence for some reason.

  
Goodnight popped open the lid to his pecan praline caramel latte, extra sweet with a shot of espresso and breathed deep the heavenly smell of a perfectly made coffee. His eyes rolled heaven-ward in thanks for a split second before he forgot where he was from, and he sighed, an irritated smirk creasing his handsome face. This was a short lived expression, however, wiped away with his first sip of his drink. "Mmm... mon dieu, c'est bonne...." he moaned, and looked up in time to see his two human summoners slide into the booth across from him. With one last sip, complete with an appreciative hum, he steepled his hands on the table before him and smiled brightly, too friendly for what he was supposed to be. "And now, mes ami, shall we get down to the nature of our business?"

  
Teddy opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Emma lifted an accusatory finger towards Goodnight. "First thing's first. What the hell was that?"

  
The demon's brows furrowed in confusion. "What was what, cher?"

  
"THAT!!" Emma hissed, her hand nearly smacking Teddy in the forehead as she swung her hand towards the people working diligently behind the counter. "They all stood at attention like a bunch of... a bunch of new recruits trembling before some hard-ass drill sargeant! They were terrified of you! Like..." Her eyes narrowed and her voice dropped to a whisper. "....like they knew who or what you are."

  
Goody's brilliant smile returned and he sat back, laying one hand flat upon the table as he reached for his drink with the other. "Mais oui. What do you think Starbucks is?"  
Teddy blinked as the gear turned in his head. "Wait. Wait, are you saying... This place is... is some kind of recruitment drive for Hell??"

  
Goody chuckled and shook his head slowly. "Listen to the music, cher. You REALLY think that God awful cacophony came from humans that meant well and only thought for the betterment of mankind? And coffee is one of the biggest commodities that has ever existed down below. Barista is second to Soul Reaper in the 'Deep South' job market. We're always hiring." The demon took a deep swallow of his coffee before he turned an amused look towards a stunned and horrified Emma. "Now. To the nature of our endeavor?"  
As Emma shook the shock from her head to focus on their transaction, Teddy mumbled, "Glad I never took that job...."

________________________________________________________________

 

Time in Hell is relative. What passes for a day above ground may have only been a split second down below. Likewise, one could live in the confines of Eternal Damnation for an eon, with only one week having passed amongst mortals. Oftentimes, the effect time has on the person, or demon, depends on the power, age, and status one possesses. Time passes faster for a full fledged demon than does for, say, a Barista.

  
Which is why Goodnight Robicheaux materialised back in the booth that he had vacated previously with only a split second having passed, just in time to see the Shadow slide into the seat in front of him and cradle his sub-par coffee. The demon huffed, an amused sound, as the black creature looked up at him, deep brown eyes twinkling in mischief.  
"Why, Sam. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

  
The Shadow was a Reaper of impressive power. When he had had a name, it had been Sam Chisolm. Goody knew him as Sam, had been mortal with Sam and breathed the same air, walked the same earth, fought the same mortal skirmishes as Sam. But where Goodnight held onto his mortality, Sam embraced his newfound power with great relish, expanding beyond the boundaries and skills that being a mortal bounty hunter had lashed him with. Now Sam's power had given him the ability to morph, at will, into the inky blackness of nightmare's pure definition. Those who saw the Shade KNEW what he was capable of and avoided his wrath at all costs, affording him every bit of respect possible.   
The Shadow's form took on a more human appearance, smooth chocolate flesh materializing and bright teeth shining through a wide smile. His hands cupped Goodnight's coffee and began sliding it across the table towards the well-dressed demon, who held a hand up towards the silent offering.

  
"Now, now, you are most welcome to that beverage. I was treated to an exceptional drink whilst in the company of mortals this fine evening," the demon said with a smile, almost proud of his having wandered above ground after spending too long avoiding work.

  
The Shadow huffed and pulled the drink towards himself. "Really," he said simply, his voice full of skepticism.

  
Goody nodded. "Indeed, I did, Sam, indeed I did."

  
Sam watched him as he took a sip of his newly acquired coffee, his deep brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. He had known Goody as a mortal, knew his fears, his anxieties. Knew the panic attacks that threatened to consume him when it came to pulling the trigger. When his status above ground afforded him the status below, he remained at his side as he tried to ease the Cajun, too warm and good hearted for this work, into the job of Reaping. He had spent an age trying to get the demon to secure his status in fear of losing it, to no avail. Hearing of his adventure into the mortal world was both skeptical and hopeful.

  
"Tell me about it then," he challenged with a sly smile, careful to make it seem encouraging and not dismissive.

  
Goody was careful to keep his voice low as he bent forward, almost conspiratorily, over the table. There was a nervousness palpable in his actions, in his words. "Novices, Sam. I was summoned by novices. How the hell they managed to get the spells right, I'll never know, but one moment, I was here, sitting down to my drink, and the next..." Goodnight shivered. Sam noticed. "The next, I was standing in the middle of Antietam." The last word sounded choked.

  
A growl nearly forced it's way up out of Sam's throat. Goodnight had been his friend through thick and thin for ages, and to say he was a little protective was underestimating the concept of protection. His teeth ground together, nostrils flaring with a breath he no longer needed to take. "So, what happened?" he said darkly.

  
"These... these two fools want me to take a soul. And not just take it, but make it suffer," Goody finished, his voice wavering, eyes staring distantly over his friend's shoulder.  
Sam sighed. He knew Goodnight needed to get back into the business, but to ask Eternal Torment from a gentle soul such as his friend was a little much in his thoughts. "This guy worth it, you think? Or are these novices just looking to get ahead in the world?"

  
Goody sat back with a heavy sigh, dragging a hand down his face as he looked out into the crowded cafe. "I dunno... I admit to being a little lax in my research as of late, so I haven't had the opportunity to look into this Bogue character."

  
Sam shot forward, his face suddenly hard in cold, his voice too eager. "What did you say his name was?"

  
The demon blinked at his friend, his face drawn in confusion. "Bogue?" he answered hesitantly. "Bartholomew Bogue? Supposed to have killed the young witchling's husband in cold blood."

  
"Give him to me," Sam snapped quickly.

  
Goody canted his head in curiosity. "W... what? Sam. This was supposed to be my operation..." he said softly.

  
The Shadow sat up sharply. "Give him to me. I want him."

  
The demon's eyes narrowed at him suspiciously. "I suspect you've been gunning for this particular mark for a reason, which I expect you to share the particulars upon my agreement."

  
"Done," Sam barked. "I'll trade you."

  
"Trade? Wh... Sam..."

  
Before Goody could continue arguing, Sam had removed a deck of playing cards from his pocket. This was a peculiar set, appearing as if they were fashioned out of pure obsidian. They seemed to glow in the Shadow's hands, each one a different intensity as he focused intently upon them. Sam studied each card as he fanned them across his long, deft fingers, appraising them at length as he slid them from one hand to the next. He stopped at one, barely glowing as he eyed it, almost meditating upon it's content, before pulling it from the deck.

  
"Here," he said sharply, sliding it face down across the table at Goodnight.

  
With nimble fingertips, Goody picked the card up and looked at the face, seeing that it contained a number of contents and statistics. "What's this?"

  
Sam slid the deck back into his pocket and leaned back across the table. "I'm trading you, so you don't have to feel as if you owe me. A soul for a soul. And this one's right up your alley."

  
Goody's eyebrow rose sharply towards his hairline. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

  
Sam smirked. "Easy to handle. For you, easy on the eyes. You have much in common."

  
Goody kicked Sam under the booth, resulting in a yelp from the Shadow that had a few heads turning in the cafe. "Goddamn you, Sam Chisolm."

  
Sam's smirk turned into a sharp smile as he leaned back and sipped at the coffee. "Can't get much more damned than we are now, can we?"

___________________________________________________________________

 

Homosexuality wasn't declared unacceptable until the beginning of the 1900s. Before that, homosexuality was an accepted practice, and same-sex marriages were common in the Wild West amongst groups where men and women spent prolonged periods of time alone with others of their gender. It spent the better portion of the 1900s as taboo, a modern witch hunt where many people were expelled from friends and family, church and home, when their orientations were revealed openly. Murders were common upon those in the GLTBQ society, and it wasn't until the dawn of a new millenia that people not of heterosexual identity were afforded the same rights and protections of the rest of society. Once again, homosexual marriage was acceptable.

  
But that was in the United States. In Asian countries, where people lived embedded in their ways for ages before America became America, homosexuality was frowned down upon from the very beginning. Unless you were of royal blood, in which case, one could get away with anything. In places such as China, Japan, and Korea, there were many reasons why it was seen as unacceptable, and none of it due to it being a sin, as it was in puritanical countries. It was expected of you, were you a male, to sire children and carry on the family name, bear children that would care for you as you grew old, or to inherit the family fortune/business/Starbucks. Were you female, it was your JOB to bear children, as many as you could to help build a legacy and bolster the population that often dwindled due to poor healthcare and accident from unregulated and often arduous career. Females were seen as a detriment, males were often preferred, and for that reason, many baby girls were abandoned. This viewpoint changed only slightly as society advanced, the old ways instilled and hard to change in the elders descended from an ancient world. Baby girls were no longer abandoned, and no longer was it their soul existence meant to create life, but boys were still preferred, males still looked to, to carry on the family name.

  
When Byeong-Li came out of the closet at seventeen, his very traditional family at first didn't understand. But when they did, he became outcast and unwelcome, a disappointment to his parents, his grandparents, to his ancestry and his country. His parents cursed him for his very life and tossed him out to make his own way.  
Luckily, he knew that this would be the outcome, and had used the part-time job of his youth to create a decent cushion to soften the blow. A smart man kept insurance in case of emergencies, and it prevented him from having to survive on the streets of current day South Korea, a fast and tough environment for even the most well-set individual.  
But the toughest people could make it work for them.

  
By day, Byeong-Li was a diligent bike courier, legs powerfully muscled by long distances and refusal to take elevators when he could. In between shifts, he practiced the martial arts that he had mastered as a youth and studied languages that would make him a great asset in his field. His arms were powerful weapons, honed to deadly accuracy as he surpassed the black belts in Tae Kwon Do as he pushed into bladed skills even they were impressed by. It made his night job so much easier.  
The seedy underbelly of Korea was always hiring, especially someone of his skills.

  
As night fell, Byeong-Li became Billy Rocks, as master of blades, an assassin that had clawed his way into the trust of powerful men that worked behind the scenes and kept their filthy fingers on the pulse of the underworld. Bloodied but victorious after years, the 30yr old had attracted the attention of one of the most powerful men of the shadows, a man that had long ago sold his soul to build his empire, a man that wanted, needed the perfect bodyguard to accompany him on his errands performed in the darkness of Korea. Which was perfect, as it left Byeong-Li freedom to perform his day job. And his day job, as the man observed, would allow one doorways into learning about future marks, as Billy's designation moved from "bodyguard" to "assassin". After a while, the money he was making meant that the day job was no longer necessary, but it still provided the perfect cover, and kept his body in outstanding shape. Bike riding across Korea was an amazing workout, afterall, and allowed him periodic stops by Starbucks. Assassins striding into coffee shops made for a more awkward appearance than bike courier.

  
Soon, Byeong-Li's trips to Starbucks became his moments of zen, a daily break of peace in the hectic life he had assumed.

  
It also allowed Goodnight Robicheaux plenty of time to admire the cut of his impressive figure from his unassuming corner booth, to take in the powerfully muscled thighs in kneelength bikeshorts, the lithe forearms bared by the rolled up sleeves of his unassuming brown button up uniform shirt, the long, deft fingers of his hands as they grasped his beverage each morning. Each day Byeong-Li came in was another day Goodnight was allowed the privledge of the other man's beauty. He had first come to observe, but as time had passed, first watching from the local coffeeshop, then following him through his underworld travels, able to obscure his presence, like you do, when you're a demon.  
However, Byeong-Li, or Billy, was a brilliant man, and could feel the burn of eyes on him regardless. His current job and his training depended on his ability to feel out his surroundings, trusting his guts, and being able to read the environment.

  
A year. Billy had been coming to this particular Starbucks for a year. For two months, he had noted a change in the behavior of the baristas, in the feel of the place. They had become tense. This coordinated with the feel of eyes upon him from somewhere. He was being watched, and this was nothing good for an assassin. However, he couldn't feel anything malicious, no dubious intent. That determination did not alleviate his anger at being watched, but the fact that Goodnight had a habit of selecting the same booth every time, AND the nervous glances the baristas shot to the barely lit corner, allowed him fuel for his suspicions.  
Goodnight stopped breathing when Billy turned towards his booth after grabbing his coffee. Hurriedly, he looked around himself for an escape and saw nothing helpful. His anxiety climbed and he forgot the ability to disappear. He whimpered as Billy slid into the booth across from him and he became visible to the shock of the man before him. He swallowed thickly, his brilliant blue eyes wide in panic that he fought valiantly to control. What kind of demon had a panic attack? Now shame colored his face, his cheeks hot with embarassment that crawled across his fair skin to the tips of his ears.

  
Those brilliant blue eyes and sharp features brushed with crimson...

  
Billy found himself entranced by them, and against his own better control, the corners of his lips curled into a soft smile, canting his head gently as he watched the man before him tamp down the panic the threatened to crawl out. Whatever, or whoever this man was, Billy felt that he couldn't be much of a threat, and he decided to affect the presence of someone softer than an assassin. For the moment, at least.

  
He leaned forward over the table towards the fair man, taking in his perfect three-piece suit, the deep brocade blue of his vest and the matching pocket square, the slicked hair as he pressed himself further against the seat as if the Korean man were a threat. Billy smiled wider; the man was not ignorant, at least. He ran the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip, Goodnight's eyes following the movement intently.

  
Goody finally succeeded in slowing his breathing as he focused on studying the man before him, the fathomless brown eyes that cut through him and seemed to read his very existence. No good in trying to read one's soul, when there wasn't one. Those sharp cheekbones, the defined jaw dusted with the black of a well trimmed beard, the curtain of ebony hair tied at the back of his neck, the one naughtly lock that swept across the man's forehead that Goodnight just wanted to reach out and tuck behind his ear....   
The demon took a calming breath and sat up straight, a smirk growing across his lips as he regained his composure. He took note to remind himself to thank Sam Chisolm and curse him for this opportunity.

  
"So who are you?" Billy finally asked, his voice a soft, deep thing that shivered up Goodnight's spine.

  
Goody took another steadying breath before he answered, impressed with the smooth flow of the other man's English. "Who am I?" he asked in feigned incredulity. "Well, ma cher, I'm certainly not just a native to the area. Just a widely-traveled adventurer, dust in the wind, a man of means who means to see the world, if you catch my drift. And drift, I do," he grinned, taking a sip of his coffee.

  
Billy studied the man before him. Despite his anxious behavior, he was a winsome thing. The accent was certainly American, deep south, but not something one could call unsophisticated. Perhaps the Carolinas, Georgia. And he had a feeling that if he hit upon a subject that the man was comfortable with, he would talk, at length, and he would be able to learn more. Was this man sent by someone with a score to settle? Billy sat up straight and fingered the rim of his beverage. While there might be some alterior motive, he felt something too genuine within this man. "And just where have you drifted from?"

  
' _Hell_ ', Goodnight thought distantly before replying, "I originate from the great state of Louisiana, was educated in South Carolina, and from there, I've roamed the world, looking to further my education and observe the beauty this world has to offer," he replied, passing a coy smile across the table.

  
This time, it was Billy who felt the heat begin to grow across his cheeks. Whatever this man's ulterior motive, he was flirting with him. And this felt genuine as well. He couldn't deny the stirrings of attraction within him, and something within him begged at him to return the flirtation. He looked down at his watch; his night job wouldn't begin for some time. Whoever this man was, he found himself wanting to hear more of that melodious accent, and he decided to sit out his coffee break learning of this man from Louisiana, perhaps determine the secrets beneath, and enjoy the flirtation that he rarely received.

  
An interesting afternoon for them both, indeed.

__________________________________________________________________

 

Across the world, in a dark, well appointed office, an oily man sat at a highly polished, expensive desk. He tiredly appraised the papers before him, signing off here and there to deposit either in an enameled box upon his desk, or within the wastebasket that sat beneath the desk beside his knee. All that lit his face was the dull light of a single lamp upon his desk.

  
With a tired sigh, he sat back and pushed the leather rolling chair back to give himself some room, glancing over his shoulder to the well dressed and powerful man that stood at attention behind him, dismissing him with a nod and a jerk of his head to the door. Once the man left, the other stood and strode across the Persian rug to a table that held an assortment of crystal decanters filled with expensive, amber liquids. He poured three fingers of bourbon in a tumbler and turned back to the desk, stopping for a moment to turn back and grab the decanter. Once he was comfortably back in his leather chair, leaned back to allow him to place his highly polished boots upon the desk before him, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. His first drag was deep, letting the cloying smoke of something a little more than just tobacco fill his lungs. He let his head fall back against the chair and stared at the ceiling for a moment until he felt the presence of something in the room.

  
"I dismissed you. I asked to be left alone," he mumbled tiredly.

  
A dark, chilling voice that shook his boned echoed through the room. "You'll be alone soon enough."

  
The man sat up straight in the chair and glared at the door through the opium haze, his eyes straining to see anything beyond the glow of his lamp. "I did not say you could enter. Who let you in?"

  
The voice answered from somewhere closer, somewhere darker. "You did."

  
The drugs, the man decided. This had to be the drugs. Gingerly, he licked his fingers to pinch the cherry out on the cigarette. Waste not, want not. With a smirk, he decided to play along. This had to be his subconscious, or his imagination, after all. "Fine, fine. So who are you? Do I know you?"

  
"You should." With that, Sam Chisolm stepped from the shadows, black hat upon his head, bowed head raising to glare at the man who started from the chair and grasped the armrests in a white-knuckled grip.

  
" _YOU..._." he hissed through clenched teeth, his face chalky with recognition's terror.

  
" _Me.._." Sam replied with a wide smile that showed his brilliant white teeth, sharper than they had any business being, were he human. "It's time to collect, Bogue."

  
When the men returned the following morning, there was no sign of their employer, except for the opium cigarette pinched cold in the crystal ashtray, the untouched tumbler of bourbon, the opened decanter. There was no security footage of the man leaving, no cameras in the room to tell if anything had happened, and no witnessed that mentioned seeing the damned man in passing. His home stood abandoned. It was as if he had simply...

  
 **Vanished**.

  
In Hell, Sam Chisolm felt a deep satisfaction he hadn't known for a long, long time, enjoying his sub-par coffee in peace. For once.

  
**_FIN_ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies, this is my first admission on Ao3. I'm not familiar with it's formatting properties.   
> The French that Goody speaks is a Cajun dialect, one I've gleaned from having Cajun family. It's not proper French by any means, which means the normally accepted "mon cher" would be "ma cher", as per Cajun patois. 
> 
> If anyone wishes, I can expand upon this storyline later. There's much more brewing in my head.


End file.
